Drive
by chasingriver
Summary: "Wake up, love," Mycroft said, dangling the keys in front of Sherlock's face, just noisily enough to pull him out of his dream. "I promised, remember? 'If you were good'—and last night, you were very, very good."


Beta: deklava

Warning: sibling incest

This is part of the _Headmaster AU_ and takes place the day after _**Christmas at the Manor**_.

* * *

Sherlock was still sleeping when Mycroft went in to get him. The frost on the leaded windows filtered the weak December sun, and Sherlock had burrowed under the covers with the eiderdown up around his neck. His unruly hair was the only sign of his frenetic personality while he was sleeping—other than that, he looked like a peaceful angel.

"Wake up, love," Mycroft said, dangling the keys in front of Sherlock's face, just noisily enough to pull him out of his dream. "I promised, remember? 'If you were good'—and last night, you were very, _very_ good."

_Last night._ He smiled as he remembered it. They'd locked themselves in the library while Mummy's Christmas party had dragged on just beyond the door. There, with the noise of the guests barely concealing their own, they'd competed to see who could fellate the other to orgasm faster. Sherlock had won, and Mycroft still had bite marks on his knuckles from where he'd had to muffle his own cries. Really, though—no one ever _lost_ in that sort of competition. Or, if that was losing, Mycroft was more than happy to lose—over and over again.

Sherlock stared at him blearily, but then he remembered what Mycroft was talking about and sprang to life. "Really?" he said, glancing at the frosty window. "Isn't it too cold?"

"It's not icy, if that's what you mean. Whether it's too cold is up to you—I'm certainly willing to endure numb fingertips to further your education," he said, with a barely-concealed smirk.

"Mm, you've _endured_ so much already, haven't you? Very noble of you." He clambered out of bed and hurried over to the chest of drawers while Mycroft eyed him appreciatively. "I could care less what the weather's like—you know I've been dying to do this for ages." He stood there, scrounging through his clothes stark naked as he tried to find something appropriate to wear.

"You're going to catch your death, you know," Mycroft said, sliding up behind him. He wrapped himself around Sherlock and pulled him back into a hug, nosing his hair out of the way so he could kiss his neck.

"I wouldn't be cold if you'd stayed in bed with me."

"One of us had to get up and make an appearance at breakfast, or Mummy might have come looking and found you in the wrong bedroom. I sent your regrets and said you had a hangover."

"Oh, lovely," Sherlock said, sarcastically. "I needed the lie-in though. You really took it out of me last night."

"Not as much as I should have, but I was worried we wouldn't be able to stay quiet. Mummy's going to the Christmas party at the Asher's tonight, so we won't have that problem. She'll be in no state to notice anything by the time she's back."

"Well, thank God for her hectic social schedule."

"Mm, she has two more after that before it's Christmas. Aren't you glad we got out of going?"

"You have no idea," Sherlock said.

"I have every idea. We might have to sleep in our proper bedrooms on Christmas Eve since she'll actually be here."

"Never. I take it as a larger challenge for us not to get caught."

Mycroft gave him another kiss and playfully slapped his arse. "Get dressed before you freeze."

* * *

Outfitted in coats and scarves, they walked outside to the detached garage—a small building a few hundred feet from the house. Once inside, Mycroft headed for the ancient Range Rover.

"Really, My? Can't we at least take the Audi?"

"No. You're going to learn on a manual transmission, and I want you to be able to drive off-road."

"It's not like it'll be hard," Sherlock muttered.

"Then this won't take long, will it?" Mycroft said, grinning. "I'll take it out."

Sherlock climbed into the passenger's seat and Mycroft proceeded to drive them away from the house, down to the side road that led to the stables. He stopped in the middle of the private drive and turned off the engine.

"All right, shift your seat back and look down here at my feet. Left to right: clutch, brake, accelerator. To change gears, put in the clutch, shift the gear stick, and then slowly ease out on the clutch until it engages—and the key word is _slowly._" He showed him the process with the car off. "Your right foot controls the accelerator and the brake, and the left one is for the clutch. Never use the left one for anything else. In the automatics, you won't use it for anything."

"Got it."

"Now, it's going to take some finesse to figure out where the clutch engages. If you let it out too quickly, the car will lurch forward and stall. You'll need some practice before you can get through town without a scopolamine patch." He turned the car back on and said, "Okay, now watch while I drive for a bit."

He drove down to the stables—Sherlock watching avidly—and showed him how to reverse and do a three point turn. Then he drove a safe distance away from any buildings. "Put it back into gear after you turn it off—that way it doesn't roll off somewhere if the brake fails."

"All right, let me try. I don't know why you're making such a fuss."

Mycroft grinned and got out. "Remember, _sloooowly_ on the clutch."

"I heard you the first time."

"Mm." Their breath fogged the cold, early-morning air as they switched places.

Sherlock turned on the car, 'eased' it out of first, and the Rover promptly gave a sickening lurch and stalled. Mycroft said nothing. He certainly didn't laugh. He might have smiled… just a little—in between lips pressed together to try and hide his amusement.

"It's not funny," Sherlock said.

"It's a bit funny."

Sherlock scowled as he started the engine again. He tried to put it into first without engaging the clutch and there was a horrendous grinding sound as the gears failed to mesh.

Mycroft smirked.

Sherlock glared daggers at him. This time, he put it in first while the engine was stopped, but then forgot to put his foot on the clutch when he started it, and once again, it lurched forward and stalled.

"Remember, it has to be in neutral—"

"—yes, yes. I know. Just shut up for a second and let me concentrate. And stop staring at me," Sherlock said, through gritted teeth.

"I'm merely observing your remarkable talent."

"Piss off."

"If I could offer a suggestion?"

"No."

"I will anyway. You should press harder on the accelerator as you ease it out. The engine will rev until it catches, but you're less likely to stall. Don't go nuts though, or you'll fly off without any control." Then he sat quietly with a small grin on his face. He'd been just as bad when he'd learnt to drive, although he wouldn't admit that to Sherlock—at least, not yet. He didn't tell him this was only the beginning of the lesson.

Sherlock finally managed to get it into gear without giving either of them whiplash, and they drove up and down the lane as he practised changing gears. Then he took him over by the stable to master three point turns.

Eventually, Mycroft had him drive onto one of the old fields in the estate, taking them out of view of the house and into the rolling hills. Sherlock wanted to go faster and get it into third gear—which made for a very bumpy ride over rough terrain. Mycroft dictated that he wasn't to get beyond second if they wanted to prevent bruising. Then he had him stop and turn the engine off at the bottom of a small slope.

"Right then: hill starts."

"Oh, God. Do I have to?"

"If you want me to let you drive, yes. You're not setting foot in any of the other cars until you can do this."

"You don't have to worry about hill starts in an automatic," he whined.

"Nope," Mycroft said, with restrained glee, "but you do in this one, and you never know when you'll need to drive out here."

"I've never needed to before."

"You never know when you might have to. Or want to."

Sherlock gave him an irritated, quizzical look, but said nothing.

Adding the handbrake to the delicate balance of putting it into gear and accelerating proved challenging. It took about eight tries—and no small amount of swearing—but he finally got it. Mycroft made him repeat it until he could do it consistently, much to Sherlock's irritation. Then they drove out further, towards the copse of oaks in the distance.

"What's out here, anyway?"

"Parallel parking."

"You must be joking."

Mycroft smiled and had him keep driving. "All right, stop here," he said as they arrived by the grove. "Now, back up until you're about a car's length from that tree."

Sherlock overshot it by at least three feet.

"Congratulations, you just demolished the car behind you."

"It would help if I could see the damned car," Sherlock muttered.

"I'll get out and stand where the car would be so you can get a better idea of the length of the Rover. You need to get a feel for these things. Once you've done it a few times, I'll move forward a bit, and you can practice parking between me and the tree." Mycroft put his scarf back on and pulled it close before he got out. This would probably take a while, and he didn't want to freeze.

After a few tries—Mycroft had to jump out of the way once, and Sherlock 'nudged' the tree with the bumper on a different attempt—Sherlock got the hang of it. Mycroft climbed back in, grateful for the relative warmth (and safety) of the vehicle. They'd have to try it in a deserted car park at some point—his skills were still a bit weak, and he needed to do it with proper lines on the ground before Mycroft would let him loose on the general public.

"See, I told you it wouldn't take long," Sherlock said. Mycroft gave him an incredulous look. "What other horrors are you going to subject me to?"

"Nothing you won't enjoy. Drive us over that way," he said, pointing towards a small clearing in the trees.

"More three point turns?"

"Something like that."

Once they'd parked, well out of sight of the house, Mycroft got out of the Rover and lifted up the rear door.

Sherlock looked in at the pile of stuff as his brother handed him a thermos. "A picnic in sub-zero weather?"

"Define 'picnic'. And have some tea—the mug will warm up your hands." Mycroft climbed into the back and began unfolding the plethora of blankets he'd brought. Sherlock caught on immediately and started to laugh.

"You brought me out here to have sex?"

"No, I'm 'teaching you to drive', but you're a horrible student, and it's going to take _much_ longer than anyone expects. These—," he pointed at the blankets, "—were merely a precaution 'in case you got us stuck in a ditch'. After all, who has sex in sub-zero weather—especially with their brother? Now, have some tea and pour me some as well. It's going to be cold enough out here, without freezing fingers on bare skin," he added with a smirk.

Sherlock suddenly looked _far_ more enthusiastic.

"How did you manage to smuggle all this stuff out of the house?" he said. The blankets—four of them—took up quite a bit of space.

"I got up _very_ early. I didn't feel like using my excuse unless I had to." He spread the two thickest ones out across the back and folded the third for use as a pillow. "Now get in here and close the door—it's freezing."

Sherlock clambered in. It wasn't horribly cramped, but it wasn't roomy, either. Mycroft reclined on the blankets, fully clothed, and pulled Sherlock down beside him.

"See, aren't you glad I _personally_ oversee your education? I still have to teach you how to fish."

"You hate fishing."

"I do, but it takes hours, happens in remote places, and rarely requires proof of the activity. I think it would be an _excellent_ hobby for us to enjoy together. Mummy does like us to get out. And it's a hell of a lot easier than learning to drive."

"Maybe if you can get back here for a week next summer—I can't imagine fishing at the moment."

"Of course not—the driving lessons were a fortunate excuse to get out of the house in this weather. Now, if you don't mind, I think we should get on with your instruction. I'd hate to waste time." He cut off any further discussion with a kiss that went on long enough to clear Sherlock's mind of any objections, though Mycroft doubted there were any.

Sherlock pulled the blanket over them and started undoing his trousers. When he noticed Mycroft hadn't even removed his gloves, he said, "Well? Am I doing this by myself?"

Mycroft gave him a knowing grin. "Of course not. There's still a driving lesson to cover before we start, though." He reached up behind the blanket and pulled out a long, metal shaft. "You need to learn to change a tyre."

Sherlock's eyes went huge. "What do you plan on doing with _that?"_

"Furthering your education, unless you'd rather I didn't."

Sherlock paused for a few moments, visually sizing up the smooth, relatively thin pipe with a fitting for wheel nuts on one end. "It's probably safer than the cricket bat handle I fucked myself with at school."

Mycroft nearly exploded with laughter. "Good God, I hope you used protection!"

"Cricket bat diseases are at an all-time low at Cambridge, but yes, I _was_ worried about splinters—that thing was ancient."

"Well, you don't have to worry about burrs," he said. "I checked it over thoroughly. I don't think it's ever been used."

"Certainly not for _this_," Sherlock replied, still looking a little astonished.

"I know you're always looking for new things to try. I can even show you how to change a tyre with it later, if you want."

"Ooh. I'm not sure which is sexier," he said, sarcastically.

Mycroft rolled over and pinned him down, kissing him. "I think you'll have an opinion soon enough," he said, moving his gloved hand between Sherlock's thighs and slowly rubbing against his crotch. "Take these off—I want to feel you." As Sherlock hurried to comply, Mycroft removed his gloves, his own arousal building in his gut.

By the time Sherlock's trousers were down around his knees, he was almost completely erect, despite the cold air. Mycroft's hand, still warm from the mug of tea, stroked him to full hardness, then long fingers dipped down under his sac and brushed lightly against his hole. Sherlock tipped his hips up to give him better access and offered an encouraging moan as Mycroft teased light circles around his entrance.

He stopped and held up the wheel nut wrench. "Well? Do you want to explore _all_ the uses of this?"

"No—just the one that involves you putting it in my arse."

Mycroft gave a short laugh. "That's what I thought." He took a condom from his coat pocket and rolled it onto the pipe—it was baggy, but at least it rendered it hygienic. Sherlock's face was flushed, and Mycroft wasn't sure if it was from excitement or the cold. Perhaps both.

"Get it wet for me, then." He held it out towards Sherlock, who propped himself up on his elbows and took it into his mouth, sucking on it obscenely, staring directly at Mycroft with a look that made him want to abandon all pretences of 'education' and fuck him senseless, but he restrained himself. He pulled it from his brother's lips after a few seconds. "I think that's probably enough," he said, not bothering to hide the lust in his voice. "Turn over."

He complied immediately, and Mycroft rubbed his hand across his smooth buttocks. "You're cold. Perhaps I should warm you up a bit," he said, as he gave him a quick smack.

Sherlock, his head buried in the makeshift pillow, moaned a positive response.

Mycroft pulled the blanket off them to get a little more room for a swing and gave him some more. Each one had Sherlock moaning and pushing his arse in the air, wriggling it tantalisingly.

"Greedy." He picked up the tool, by this time cold from the surrounding air, and examined it. He was having doubts about its suitability as a sex toy, no matter how deliciously filthy the mental image of it sliding in and out of his brother's hole might be. He couldn't risk hurting Sherlock. There had to be something else. "I'm sorry—I don't think we should use this."

"It'll be fine, just put it in me," Sherlock pleaded.

"Give me a sec—there's something else we can use." They always kept a torch in the Rover—one of those huge metal ones that took D-cells, over a foot long and about an inch and a half wide. He found it tucked away near the medical kit. "Here—this is a lot thicker. Do you want me to work you up to it?"

Sherlock eyed it for a second and said, "No… just fill me up… please."

He rolled a condom over the torch and smeared it with lube, then pressed the flat base of it against Sherlock's hole. He'd taken thicker before, but those objects were tapered. He pressed firmly, but Sherlock's body wouldn't yield. Even when Sherlock pushed back against it, it still wouldn't go in. He felt a flutter of desire in his gut as he imagined what this must feel like—having your body fight something, even when your mind was willing. He wanted Sherlock to do this to _him_ sometime.

"Harder—I can take it, I swear."

Mycroft wasn't sure he _could_ push harder. Instead, he started twisting the torch against his hole, pressing steadily as he did so. All at once, it slipped inside him, and Sherlock cried out.

"Are you all right?" Mycroft asked hurriedly, about to pull it back out. He didn't want it to hurt.

"F…fine," Sherlock breathed, "I'm fine. Don't… just give me… oh God… full… so _cold_." After a few deep, unsteady breaths, he said, "Okay, good. Just… slow."

Mycroft started moving, only by millimetres at first, until Sherlock started begging for more. Even then, he kept his movements relatively shallow; the thick metal shaft had no give and he didn't want to go too deep. He reached around and palmed Sherlock's erection, still hard and desperate for attention. He gave him a few languid strokes as he pushed the torch as deep as he dared. "Is that what you want?"

"Mm, yes. No… you. I want your cock. And your hand."

"Greedy little slut."

Sherlock moaned and rolled his hips.

Mycroft carefully removed the torch. When Sherlock's arse wasn't immediately filled and he didn't hear Mycroft removing his clothes, he flipped over onto his back. "What _are_ you doing?"

Mycroft handed him a condom.

"Since when do we use these?"

"I'm minimising clean-up."

"That doesn't mean _I_ need to wear one. Didn't you bring tissues?"

"The way I'm going to take you, you'll come all over the blanket… but you don't have to wear one if you don't want to."

Sherlock furrowed his brows. "What? You just said—"

"If you don't wear one, I won't let you come," Mycroft interrupted. "Your choice." He smiled and held out the condom.

"Make me."

Mycroft lips curled into a wicked grin. "Tempting, but no. Are you sure you don't want to reconsider?"

"You can't stop me from coming."

"Just watch me. It's tempting just to fuck your mouth, but I spent so much effort opening you up. Get on your knees like you were before, you little tart."

Sherlock flipped over with his bum in the air and wiggled it suggestively as Mycroft unzipped his trousers and rolled on the condom. Even in this weather, he was hard and ready to take him. After 'preparing' Sherlock like that, it was no surprise. He pulled Sherlock's cheeks apart—his tight pucker was still wet and pink from their earlier session with the torch. He slicked himself up with some more lube and wiped his hand off on Sherlock's arse as he lined up.

"Hey," Sherlock whined, "that's cold. I thought you—"

Before he could say any more, Mycroft shoved his cock home, snapping his hips as he took Sherlock completely. He stayed like that for a second, his body pressed up against Sherlock's, before he pulled back and slammed into him again.

Sherlock grasped handfuls of the blanket and tipped his hips to give him a better angle. He moaned incoherently as Mycroft kept up his brutal pace.

The heat of Sherlock's arse felt so good around his cock. He stopped fucking him quite as vigorously—he just buried his cock as deep as he could and gave small little thrusts, each one earning him a grunt of pleasure from his brother. Then he saw Sherlock move his hand down to his cock. He pulled out and thrust back in—hard—almost knocking Sherlock off balance. Then he grabbed Sherlock's hand and pinned it against his back. "I told you, you're _not_ going to come." Sherlock crumpled beneath him and started rutting against the blanket instead.

"Oh, that's how you want it?" He grabbed the blankets and pulled them out from underneath Sherlock, then pushed him down onto the freezing bare-metal floor of the Rover.

Sherlock howled and nearly levitated off the floor. It was a good thing they were nowhere near the house.

Mycroft pushed Sherlock's groin—the only unclothed part of him—back down against the cold metal. "Did you think I was lying?"

All he got in response were incoherent begging noises and desperate attempts to keep his exposed skin off the floor, pushing him against Mycroft.

Mycroft lined up again and shoved back into him, pressing him down against the metal and pinning him there. "I'm sure that took the edge off, didn't it?" he said, pumping into him with short, hard strokes. "Keep it up—all that squirming feels wonderful. I'll expect you'll want me to finish soon."

Sherlock finally found words. "Goddamnit, Mycroft, you fucking prick! Let me up! Do you know how cold this is?"

"Cold enough to kill your erection and prove my point." He let up on the pressure so Sherlock could brace himself off the floor. "Pull the blanket back if you want—I doubt even _you_ can get hard again before I'm done."

Sherlock dragged enough of it beneath him that he could rest on the floor again, still grumbling.

"Don't be such a brat, Sherlock. You did _choose_ this." He could feel his orgasm building at the base of his spine, getting close as he continued fucking him.

Even though Sherlock was irritated, he still pushed back to meet each of Mycroft's thrusts, unable to deny himself the pleasure of his brother's cock sliding across his prostate. With the blanket shielding him from the cold floor once more, he even started to get aroused again, but Mycroft would be finished long before he could get close to coming.

Mycroft couldn't help feeling a little sorry for him, but he wasn't about to back down. "I don't blame you for trying," he said, as he continued chasing his own pleasure, "but I'm not going to spoil your lesson."

"What lesson? That you're always right?" Sherlock complained, but his petulance didn't have its full force when he was trying to fuck himself into a frenzy before Mycroft finished.

"No, that I keep my promises," Mycroft managed to say as he pinned Sherlock down and came inside him with one final thrust. He relaxed on top of him, breathing heavily, steeping in the afterglow.

Sherlock was not amused.

"I can't believe you didn't let me come, you bastard."

"You should learn to pick your battles. Was getting into a pissing match about wearing a condom worth missing out on your orgasm?"

Sherlock didn't respond—which probably meant 'No, it wasn't worth it, but I don't want to agree with you.'

Mycroft kissed his neck before he carefully pulled out of his brother. He cleaned himself off, putting the used condom with the others and stashing all the evidence in a wad of tissues in the pocket of his overcoat. Doing up his trousers, he realised just how warm and content the orgasm made him feel. Intellectually, he knew it was still freezing and that they were both mad, being out here like this, but Sherlock didn't have the neurochemical glow of orgasm to chase away the cold.

His brother was still lying on his stomach in a sulk. Mycroft lay back down next to him and pulled him against his chest, then he wrapped the blanket around them both and buried his face in Sherlock's hair. "I'm sorry," he said, "but you did back me into a corner, and I won't let you walk all over me." He kissed his neck again. "It doesn't mean I don't love you." If Sherlock was going to come to London and live with him, parameters had to be established.

Sherlock grumbled something indistinct but curled more closely against him.

"I got you some interesting Christmas presents from London," Mycroft said.

Sherlock turned his head back to look at him and then flipped over so he was facing Mycroft. "What sort of presents?" he said, sounding curious and less irritated.

"You'll be able to get rid of that cricket bat, for one."

He favoured Mycroft with a small smile. "That sounds promising."

"They should make school more bearable."

"Only six more months and I'll be moving in with you."

"And then we'll go and get a wider selection we can both use."

Sherlock was silent for a while, and when he spoke, his voice was solemn. "Six months is a long time."

Mycroft froze, not sure what he was getting at, but terrified it would involve the phrase 'other people'. He waited for Sherlock to continue.

"I don't want to wait until summer to see you again. It's only a couple hours by train from Cambridge. Can I visit on weekends?"

Mycroft sighed with relief and held him tighter. "God, yes. Of course." He kissed him, tenderly. "It'll be great to see you more often."

"You still owe me an orgasm."

"I don't _owe_ you anything, but I will _choose_ to make you come so hard you can't think straight once we get back to the house."

"Promise?"

"Have you learnt nothing about my promises today?" Mycroft said, rolling his eyes.

"Can I drive back?"

"Of course."

"In fourth gear?"

"As long as we're on the tarmac or you'll give us both concussions."

"Can we take out the Audi next time? It has heated seats."

"Yes, but I'll still make you wear a condom if we're going to have sex in it."

"I can live with that," Sherlock said, and kissed him.

"Good. When we get back, I think you should open some of your presents early. For instructional purposes."

* * *

Metal toys exist (lovely, stainless steel ones), but I wouldn't recommend using either torches or tyre irons!

You can find me on tumblr at chasingriversong!


End file.
